To 'Pete,' Who's Lost in the Mainstream

Welcome to the Middle School. I hope you have a good year. I will
write you a note every day, and I hope you will answer.

I went sailing a lot this summer. Did you do any fun thing?

Your friend, Mrs. O

DeaR Miss

Mrs. O. I DieD Niet Have a NiCe SumRe The eND

Dear Pete,

You got a haircut! I like it! I cut my husband's hair. I'm very
quick. And he is very nervous. He says "Be careful!" a lot.

DeaR Miss MRs O

iM Going To See nay ukce thats iN PRiSeiN Thaes WKaNDe

October

Dear Pete,

Answer this, OK? I miss hearing from you.

insert 'No' with sad face drawn in 'o'.

Dear Pete,

You did good work yesterday. Keep it up!

THAnK yOu. ThE ENd

November

What do you like to do when you are not in school?

SeliPe

Dear Pete,

Sleep? That does not sound very exciting. How many hours a day can
you sleep?

Did you eat a lot on Thanksgiving? We are still eating turkey. Even
my cats are getting tired of turkey.

geT OFF mY BaKe

Dear Pete,

No, I won't get off your back. Sorry. I am here to teach you to
read, and I will do it.

geT oFF mY bak. OLeny Kidye

Pete Smith

Dear Pete,

I know. You are quite a kidder. But even if you're only kidding I'll
be on your case every day. That's the way teachers are.

WRITE me every day. No kidding.

Mae be mae be noT

December

Dear Pete,

I hope you have a good Christmas. I'm getting my cats some catnip.
They will be happy. I'm getting my husband a book I want to read.
That's the way it goes.

YEs I will HaVe a gooD ChriStmaS yR por HUsbN

March

I dont winte to do the note to day

Smith. p.

Dear Pete,

That's OK. I have days like that too. And you have never heard
anybody complain about writing letters the way my husband does. Good
thing he's not in this class. He'd have a fit if somebody told him to
write a letter EVERY DAY.

You are doing pretty well. Look at all these notes. It would take me
six weeks to count them all. I'm proud of you.

May

Dear Pete,

My cat sits on top of the refrigerator, and it makes my husband MAD.
He yells at the cat, but the cat doesn't care. He just does it
again.

Sam thaing wetha my dog But He sits on the kioscue [couch]

Dear Pete,

Pets are tricky. They like to get their own way. Do you know any
kids like that?

Yaw me and my barther

June

Dear Pete,

I hope you are not too sad. There is no school Friday and no school
Monday. Be brave, Pete. Don't cry!

I'm too happ

Dear Pete,

Happy? Well, I know you will be sad soon. Just think--all summer I
won't be around to bug you.

Mrs. O

I hop you ar her nathyer [next year] becase iT wont Be no Fane Weth
out you PLes com bake

freNd Pete

[Note: Pete could not read any of the teacher's notes. They were
read to him and then he wrote the replies.]

Dear Pete,

I'm not sending this letter to you, because I don't know how to say
goodbye, and I don't know if you would understand me when I say I'm
sorry.

I reported on the very first day of school last September that you
were in critical trouble. The people who heard me asked, "How can you
tell so soon?" Apparently, a teacher is not supposed to notice until
the third month of school that a 7th grader doesn't even know the
alphabet. I kept insisting that you needed special attention, though,
and after a month or so your name was put on a list.

Every time your name was mentioned, school officials moaned, "Why
wasn't something done about that kid in elementary school? How can a
child get all the way to 7th grade without being able to read?" People
checked into your background. Your mother's prenatal emotions are
crucial in the evaluation process. I kept asking, "Why don't we do
something about Pete's problem now?" But one cannot rush the
bureaucratic process or leapfrog any step.

In November, an administrator announced to the Committee on the
Handicapped that, like Rockefeller and Einstein, you are dyslexic and
will never learn to read and that I should get a tape recorder. That
administrator has never met you, Pete. And that's no solution anyway. I
announced that someday when your parents got wind of this pronouncement
and sued the district, I would testify on their behalf. So then I
received an administrative memo ordering me to teach you to read. I
also received a tape recorder. It's called administrative privilege.
And cover your ass.

There was talk by some administrators that the problem would be
solved if we could just get you labeled emotionally disturbed. After
all, nobody expects those kids to read. And you did get in a lot of
fights, Pete. You were always in the office. But you know it's better
for people to think you're mean than dumb, right?

I kept telling people that you aren't psycho, aren't loony, aren't
even mean. You are a big, tough kid who is desperate about not being
able to read. I begged people to get you some individual help, to take
you out of so many academic classes. By the time you got to me--the
last period of the day--you were exhausted, mostly from playing the
tough guy all day (so nobody would notice you can't do the work).

Administrators insisted nothing could be done about your academic
schedule until we heard from Community Services. I wonder who those
guys are and why we think they should solve our problems.

Every week on my lesson plans I stated that I was not meeting your
needs and would like an administrator--any administrator--to come to
our class and help me organize a program for you. Of course, I knew
they didn't know the first thing about meeting your needs, but it was a
way to keep putting on the record that you needed help. And nobody
came--not even for an official observation. I think they were scared of
both of us, Pete.

In April, we finally heard from Community Services. They had
misplaced your file in November but found it again around February
after we bugged them daily for three weeks. But in February the
neurosurgeon quit and nobody could find the EEG he had done. So you had
to be wired up again, and you weren't thrilled. I remember you joked
about how people thought you were nuts, and I didn't know how to deal
with your pain and frustration.

After your second EEG, a nice lady from Community Services finally
told us that three physicians, a psychologist, and a social worker had
examined you and reached the careful diagnosis that you don't read so
well and have never liked school. Now that was news worth waiting for,
wasn't it, Pete? Their prescription was that we should be kind to you
and work with you individually. Now, I've been pretty darned nice to
you, Pete, except for that time when you threatened to punch my face
in. That day I yelled a little, but you didn't throw the chair at me
after all and we both calmed down. And we really haven't had much
difficulty since. Except you still can't read. And you're angry all the
time.

School officials are happy because now you are labeled "special
ed." and they won't be held responsible if you don't learn to read.
They can insist that teachers give you a passing mark. This year I've
refused. That seems ironic, doesn't it? The teacher who wore her heart
on her sleeve for you all year is the only teacher who gave you a
failing grade. The authorities asked me to give you a 65. Well, Pete,
they came pretty close to making that an order. But I refused. I said
it would send a false message to your parents. Worse, it would be
giving you a false message. If I said you passed language arts, I'd be
saying you had done adequate work.

But I know and you know, Pete, that it just ain't so. You enjoyed
the books I recorded and you enjoyed our notes, but you refused to do
anything else. I can think of all sorts of complex psychological
explanations for your refusal to cooperate. I can understand your
curses and your threats, but I care enough about you to say, "No way,
kid." The buck stops here. It's not easy, but I can't just look the
other way.

This class is about as individual a program as possible: two
teachers and 14 students each period. And it's the only class you
failed. You passed every other academic class, regular classes with 30
students. I wish that meant you did well in those classes, but I know
the truth: Some teachers would rather not rock the boat.

I asked for permission to give you an Incomplete, but the principal
said the computer can't deal with that. The computer can't deal with
that and we can't deal with you, Pete, so what's next?

I admit I was tough on you, Pete. My toughness was an expression of
my hope and faith in you. I don't give up easily on kids, and you are
definitely an okay kid. I figured we had one more year to work (and
fight) together. But I have just been informed by an administrator who
has a way with words that my program has been "liquidated." Two
teachers for 14 students is not cost-effective. So you can't come back
here next year.

The people in charge assure me you will do fine in a regular
language-arts class now that you have the special-ed. label. You won't
fail, Pete. You are guaranteed to graduate on schedule. You can look at
the pictures in the book, participate in class discussions, or put your
head down and go to sleep. Nobody hassles mainstreamed kids just so
long as they are quiet and don't cause trouble. Mainstreamed kids don't
have to pass tests. They can go to the library and watch
filmstrips.

People tell me I worry too much about teaching you to read. I know:
Rockefeller and Einstein and Edison and Da Vinci. Even if I could
believe 10 percent of the claims, I don't see that it has much to do
with you. People keep telling me that if their own kids were "special,"
they'd want them in all the regular classes. That's what mainstreaming
is all about. It's called "least restrictive environment," Pete.
Mainstreamed kids aren't in academic classes to learn content or
skills; they are there for something called socialization. I've never
quite figured out just what that is. I wonder how sociable it is for a
kid to be faced all day with work he cannot do, surrounded by
classmates who can.

I brought your name to the Committee on the Handicapped because I
wanted you to get relief from a heavy academic schedule. I had hoped
you'd get an alternative program, one that would build on your
strengths and provide you with more specialized help in reading. I
thought a special-ed. label would do that for you, Pete. I was wrong.
These days, a special-ed. label invites the people in charge to wash
their hands of your special needs. They can shove a 12-year-old boy
into the mainstream, tell him to socialize, and give up entirely on
teaching him to read.

Susan Ohanian, senior editor at Learning: The Magazine for Creative Teaching, is on a leave of absence from a New York public-school district in which she taught for 16 years.

Vol. 04, Issue 28, Page 32, 24

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